


A Doctor's Healing Touch

by casstayinmyass



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: Agatha Christie Is Rolling Over In Her Grave, Angst, Armstrong's Actually Pretty Docile In This..., Big Spoon Armstrong, Blore Isn't Gay Except When He Is, Blore Likes To Cuddle, Canon Compliant, Derogatory Language, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Recreational Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, Little Spoon Blore, M/M, Past Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sad Because We Know What Happens, Smut, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6576319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blore has a nightmare when he wakes up in Armstrong's bed, and only the doctor's touch can comfort what the DI can't reveal to anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Doctor's Healing Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place the night of their wild cocaine-and-booze party, the second last night on the island.

A jarring gasp echoed through the dark room, and suddenly, the candle was lit.

"What is it? Is it the killer?!" Armstrong hissed, launching himself out of bed and preparing with practiced precision to pounce on any intruder with fire poker in hand. His companion sat up in bed, mopping his forehead and panting.

Armstrong's senses came about him as he adjusted to his state of awake, and his guard lowered a little. Blore was just having a nightmare. After a moment, the doctor came to the conclusion that last night's party had not worn off just yet for the apparently lightweight DI.

"You can't hold your liquor, can you?" the doctor mumbled, running a hand through his mussed auburn curls as he dropped the poker.

"Wha... I... I can't be blamed!" Blore panted, face shiny with sweat, "That much devil's mouthwash can drive a man insane!" The last traces of cocaine in his system from the evening before weren't agreeing with him much more, but that was obvious unsaid.

"I assure you, it takes a lot more than that," Armstrong murmured back, face solemn with burdened experience. "Now _shh_... go back to sleep." He got back into bed, his calloused thumb taking up brushing strokes across Blore's forehead, "It was just a dream, William."

"Don't go calling me that."

"Sorry- Blore."

 The detective reluctantly rested his head on the doctor's muscular chest, partially covered by the white sheets. Dark nights like these were the worst for him... these times always brought about what he wished he could forget.

"What's wrong?" Armstrong asked, frowning down at him. His broad chest, which was covered in just the right amount of hair, was steadily rising and falling easily, but Blore's heart was beating noticeably faster now.

"You don't know what I've done," Blore murmured, hands quivering.

"What?"

"You've got no idea," Blore continued, beginning to shake more now as his hands grabbed onto Armstrong's shoulders. Armstrong sat up further in bed, taking Blore's slender wrists and stalling them.

"What are you talking about?"

"The... the record, it was... it was all true, all of it, but there's more... I'm... guilty... don't you see Armstrong? I'm guilty!"

Armstrong's eyes closed, and his nostrils flared.

"Calm down."

"Ca- Bugger that! Yesterday, who was the one tippin' back five glasses of firewater, eh? Who was the one screamin' his lungs out at all of us, losing his composure in front of the "ladies"! How fuckin' hypocritical! Don't tell me to-!"

Suddenly, Blore's rant was silenced by Armstrong's lips on his again, as that seemed to be how the two dealt with their squabbles as of late, and the detective's mind was cleared momentarily. But when the doctor pulled away, Blore was crying, slipping down to sob into his neck.

"You... you don't got an inkling of what I did..." he cried, hiding himself in Armstrong's shoulder in shame. The doctor's firm hand reached to slide up and down Blore's lithe, naked back in attempt to soothe... which he was surprisingly good at, given that comfort wasn't really his forte. 

"Well... the record did say-"

"The record be buggered, it don't know the truth!"  

There was some silence, the sound of heavy rain showering down on the balcony just outside a consistent accompaniment. Then Blore spoke up again through choked sobs.

"I... I stomped him to death... for _cottaging_ , nothing more! And that on its own is far past a sin, but before I did, I..." He sniffled, letting out an effeminate noise and inhaling. "I did something ungodly to that boy. Something... indecent."

Armstrong thought he followed the gist of what Blore was hinting at, and sighed.

"We've all done things we're not proud of, inspector."

Ignoring this, the DI went on.

"He was just... despite how dirty the fairy was below the surface, he was just so _beautiful!_ " Blore whimpered, sobbing some more, "I couldn't... it was the only way to..."

"Perhaps you weren't in your right mind."

"I never _was_ right in the head! I'm still not, take a look at me!" He sniffled, "I'm in bed with another man, a respectable doctor at that, and I ain't even queer!"

"For god's sake, lower your voice- the other guests will hear us."

"Let 'em!" Blore sniffled miserably, pale face stained with tears, "Let 'em hear how much of a soddin' pansy I am. Like they haven't been talking already."

"Alright, look at me," Armstrong interrupted the hysterics firmly, tilting Blore's chin up. "No more self-pity. You've made mistakes. I've made mistakes."

"Bloody right you have..." Blore muttered dejectedly, leaning his chin out of Armstrong's touch.

"There, you see? All of us have," Armstrong said softly. Blore eyed him suspiciously, brown eyes narrowing into slits.

"Why are you all cuddly-feely now? I recall you weren't that hot on the idea of us... _sleepin'_ together last night, not at all! You were a downright nasty bugger last night, dammit..."

"Alcohol changes me into something I'm not; you of all people should know that. But please understand, people can change in no time- and by god, it's time as ever to change. We've got to live like we could die at any minute," Armstrong said, "Because we could. We could hear a bang at our door any minute, and then- just like that, another little soldier boy drops."

Blore swallowed, and looked to the door as if in anticipation for this to come true; but nothing happened, of course.

"Whatever you did to that boy," Armstrong said, shaking his head, "Was horrible, I'm sure. But it's in the past. Spirits exist only in a barmy mind- I've seen the proof of it in my profession, believe me. You and I, Blore, must keep a sane mind in this situation if we want to get off this island together."

"Who said I wanna get off with you?!" Blore balked, jaw clenching. Armstrong raised an eyebrow.

"You said it last night, when I had you face down and-"

"Alright, alright," Blore snapped, "Spare me the filthy details, my poor knackered body's a living reminder of 'em..."

Armstrong chuckled a little, and Blore eventually joined in. Soon, both men were smiling wider than ever, and Blore rested his forehead down against Armstrong's.

"I ain't no queer," he mumbled against the doctor's lips, and the doctor just smirked.

"Alright."

"I see that stupid little smirk! The only woman left is _taken_ , and anyway, she ain't my type, though I wouldn't have touched Miss Brent with a bloody ten foot pole either. I'm no queer!"

"I know," Armstrong continued to chuckle, and Blore batted him playfully. Soon, the two were kissing again, gently at first then in rough, needy rushes, which inevitably progressed back to grinding against each other until Blore was moaning. Armstrong was trying very hard to will his own erection down because this, right now, was for his companion only. With a sharp tug, Armstrong was flipping Blore over so that he was now pinned underneath the doctor as they continued.

"Just so you know," Blore grunted, letting out a low groan as Armstrong applied more pressure to his stiff cock, "I'm thinkin' of a beautiful lady right now, not your grubby mug."

"Very good, so am I." The doctor grinned as a few curls dangled down in front of his face from his position on top.

Blore paused, thin moustache twitching. "What does she look like?"

"She's got short dark hair, combed over to the side. Tight, double breasted suit... wonderful legs, cute little hat. Oh, and that moustache..."

"God-bloody-fuckin'-bugger, Armstrong, I-"

Suddenly with a shudder, the detective came in Armstrong's fist, jerking his hips wildly with his mouth in the formation of an O.

"I know- you're no queer," Armstrong whispered before Blore could say it, "But you're in love with me, and we're going to leave this island together... alive."

Blore contemplated this through his usual narrowed eyes as he stared at the debauched redheaded man, then arrived at some sort of decision that denial was futile around Armstrong... the doctor was the only person he could be himself around. He nodded slowly. "I suppose most of that statement is viable. But who knows if a bloody knife in the stomach ain't waitin' for us around the corner?"

"I have a way off the island."

"What?!"

"If we're discreet, and we can pull this off once we return to shore... we can distract each other," Armstrong murmured, "From our crimes."

"Yes," Blore whispered, closing his eyes. He craved nothing more than to be free of the burden of silent nights by himself, left alone with his memories and self reflection. Those were the lowest of the low... even lower than coming down off of a high like this. Here, with Armstrong, he could fall asleep in someone's arms... someone who understood.

"Y'know... you ain't always right. But in this particular state of affairs... you weren't wrong," Blore muttered, looking away.

"About what?" the doctor frowned.

"Lovin' you... and all that rubbish," Blore said with a chuffed smile, and Armstrong smiled back.

"I know," he said, "Now go to sleep- you look terrible."

Blore hummed. "Maybe I look terrible because I was up all night murdering the guests... you don't know," he mumbled nonsensically, fading in and out of consciousness now; the sweat had disappeared, and his breathing had steadied out to a less worrisome pace. The doctor shook his head, looking down at him.

"It's Lombard or Claythorne," he huffed a little too quickly, "Not you. They've been suspiciously close since the day we arrived- they must be Mr. and Mrs. Owen."

"How've you got any clue it's not me?"

"Because you've been in my arms the entire night."

"Hmm... and I intend- in the least queer way possible- to stay this way... forever," Blore whispered, and kissed Armstrong again as he tangled their legs together and fell fast asleep to the sounds of the storm. The doctor stared out the window, and thought first in vivid detail of the bloody sheet covering the patient he had killed in surgery... the deep red staining his scrubs as he stared, horrified, at what he had done to that poor young girl; all because he was on the bottle. Not like he had done much better now.

Then, gazing down at the now-peacefully sleeping Blore in his arms, he thought of his arrangement with the very much alive Wargrave... surely the good judge wouldn't mind if he brought one more to the cliffs the next day.


End file.
